


Call me what you want

by withered



Series: Who's been lovin' you good? [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: I Made That Up, M/M, Nicknames, Pet Names, The Rogues are back from Wakanda, but Tony's got him, but no outright bashing, he digs them, he's got name weakness, in which he is neither the Soldier or Bucky, it's a minor identity crisis, just Tony being petty, not team Cap friendly, that's a thing now, whatever, which is my religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-05 11:13:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14617211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withered/pseuds/withered
Summary: Asset. Fist of Hydra. The Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes.It was all the same, really.Until it wasn't.





	1. Chapter 1

 

He’s had many names over the years, though, he wasn’t particularly attached to any.

They were simply monikers to which he could be identified, to tell him who he was supposed to be. It was like a shorthand for orders – and for a long time, all he’d ever been was exactly who Hydra wanted: The Soldat.

When Captain America – Steve Rogers – called him “Bucky”, his first response was immediate, “Who the hell is Bucky?” Because he didn’t know what that meant – he didn’t know what character he was expected to be, and it was enough of a distraction from his mission that he _failed to accomplish it._ He never quite forgave Steve for it, though he supposed that getting him out of Hydra clutches was a fair enough trade-off.

He pretended to know better later – after the triggers were activated, after that airport had been totaled after he came out of deep freeze – he pretended “Bucky” meant something, and in the end it did.

He was used to being used, used to filling in the spaces – the roles – the positions – of someone else:

You needed someone killed, that’s what he was for. You needed someone to bury the body, he’s got two hands for a reason. You needed someone to rip through a base like a tank, just give him a gun. You needed someone to pretend to be your long-lost friend from the War, give him a name, and he would be anyone you want him to be.

Asset. Fist of Hydra. The Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes.

It was all the same, really.

When he met Tony Stark – The Iron Man – again, names became something else.

After a moment of scrutinization, lingering on the prosthetic that the Princess gifted him with – even though he knows she didn’t make it, the design was too different to her signature – Tony asked, “How’s the arm?”

His lips lifted. _Called it._

A mission report tickled at his throat, lingering on his lower lip as he licked it before he remembered – with Steve at his left, he wasn’t the Winter Soldier, he was Bucky Barnes – and settled, with some difficulty on, “Operational."

The engineer tilted his head, oddly inquisitive.

The man reminded him of a handler – reminded him of being tested, examined, found _lacking_ – and he couldn’t resist how his posture straightened, his body tensing for punishment until Tony declared, “That’ll do, Frosty.”

Names, he realized, were powerful things. They not only told you who you were but also who you were to others.

Tony referred to the Rogues by their last names or designation, and it seemed to upset them.

He recognized it for what it was, though: distance, civil courtesy, indifference.

No matter how often Steve insisted that _“Tony needs us.”_

He snorted at the thought.

The self-proclaimed genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist didn’t have a need for anything.

The man had more money than God, a considerable sway in the media and the political ring, and the smarts and accompanying willpower to create a functioning Ironman suit in a cave all while undergoing months of torture. And that’s when he remembered, rather belatedly why Tony Stark was dangerous.

(He never forgot what the man could do – he earned the moniker of the Merchant of Death for a reason – and it was a sobering reminder that if Tony Stark had wanted to – Steve and he wouldn’t have been the ones to walk out of that bunker that day.)

Tony was also, despite his strange hours and insistence in avoiding “team meals”, not alone, if the names he peppered his supposed-favorites meant anything –  and it did mean _something_ with the way Steve, Natasha, and Clint would look enviously at them.

DUM-E was nicknamed “Dumbo” and “old man”, while U and Butterfingers were called forth as “sweet pea” and “tater tot” respectively. Even Friday, the most intelligent and youngest of his children, was spoken to with every version of “sweetheart” and “darling” that he could manage to squeeze into an interaction. Tony too, referred to the Vision as, “The fruit of my loins,” and his human charge, the frighteningly unafraid spider-kid, could practically be summoned by the made-up, “Underoos.”

Colonel Rhodes, as Tony’s oldest friend, had a variety of nicknames bestowed upon him, everything from “Honey-bear” to “Gum Drop” to “Sour Patch” and it reeked of familiarity and friendliness and family.

To Tony, names meant closeness, and none of the Rogues were considered close to him anymore. 

Color them all surprised then when Tony began to address him with outlandish names.

They were randomly picked and was either a nod towards his Winter Soldier moniker (“Frosty” and “Tasty Freeze” being the two regularly in use) or a variation of Bucky (“Buckaroo” and “Bucky-bear” which he used sparingly, and only ever if Steve were in the room). Thinking about it now, almost three months since their return to the United States, he was both surprised and amused that he hadn’t figured it out sooner.

 “You’re petty as hell,” he concluded.

And there it was, that glacial to grow smirk that was everything devious and mischievous, as his reward. “Does it rub you the wrong way, Grease Lightning?” the engineer practically purred.

“No.”

Tony snorted, feigning disappointment. “Figures.” Grimacing against the motor oil staining his fingers, he added, “Here I was thinking it made both parties uncomfortable and I was getting the ultimate satisfaction.”

“You’ve got a strange scale for what qualifies as satisfaction, kotenok.”

“Gotta take it where I can get it,” he defended, though the smirk still tugged at his lips. “Love the accent, by the way, suits you better than the phony Brooklyn you’ve got Rogers buying.”

He paused, he hadn’t even realized –

“Don’t stop on my account,” Tony added. “I figured you were more After than Before; otherwise you’re way too well-adjusted.” With a passing wink, he continued, “I know the game, be exactly who you pretend to be to keep everyone off the scent of trauma. It isn’t the worst coping mechanism, trust me, I’m a connoisseur.”

To that, he was silent, at a loss.

That was all true but also –

Musingly, Tony asked, “What do I actually call you, by the way?”

“Call me?”

The engineer’s brows lifted. “You know, like your name. Rogers introduced you as Bucky, is that what you call yourself?”

“No, I…”

He hadn’t really – thought about it. He was just…himself? Not even in his thoughts did he refer to himself as anything - Bucky wasn't him, that was who Steve wanted him to be, and he certainly wasn't the Winter Soldier or the Asset or Soldat, so that left him with -

Tony frowned, turning to give him his full attention. “I didn’t give you identity issues by giving the game up, did I?”

“I just never thought about who I was without someone telling me who to be.”

After a few minutes of a decidedly loaded silence, Tony declared, “Alright, this is starting to smell of an existential crisis. You and me, we’re sticking with the pet names – and you can be, whoever the hell you want. Got it?”

Whoever he wanted...huh.

“Parameters accepted.”

“You,” he began warningly, pointing a wrench in his direction, getting him to smirk. After huffing under his breath with a mutter of, “the sass on this man”, Tony asked, “So, you got any preferences?”

 “You seem to be having a good time with all of them.”

His companion snickered. “Goes without saying, Red October.”

“I like those,” he decided after a moment’s contemplation, “the Winter Soldier ones.”

“Yeah, Bucky’s a weird enough name, right? Though don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t be caught dead calling you that, and if I do, just assume something bad is happening and I’m trying to covertly signal you.”

 “Noted," he allowed, and before he could even really think about it, he began, "otherwise..."

“Otherwise,” Tony repeated, tentatively prompting.

“I’m not,” he began slowly, “opposed to James. No one’s called me that since...”

Before. Before the war, before the Fall, before even Steve. It was just Before. He probably didn't even have an identity then, James had been just a name to put on a birth certificate. Maybe it meant something in the family, maybe it was his father's name or his grandfather's, and they passed it to him so he could be like them, but James didn't remember them anyway - doesn't recall - so he really didn't know what it meant to be James, but no one's call him that since -

“Me,” Tony decided. “No one’s called you that since me, I’m calling you that.”

But it didn't mean he didn't  _like_ the other names Tony came up with. "But the nicknames," he began, hearing the defensiveness in his own voice.

“Pet names,” Tony corrected with a wiggle of his brows. “You know it, I know it, everyone else knows it. Those are still a thing, full effect, all the time.”

Why did his cheeks feel so warm?

About an hour into his next building binge, Tony murmured, “James” slowly, as if tasting the word on his tongue.

Now, as stated previously, he’s had many names over the years, but that – and the way Tony said it all soft and secretive and gentle and – Swallowing hard, James licked his lips and hoarsely managed a distracted, “Yeah?”

With soft denim hanging low on his lips, black vest plastered against olive skin and a smear of oil against his cheek, the man winked like he knew exactly what James wanted to do with him, and teased, “I think I’ll use that for special occasions.”

Oh.

_Oh god._

Who knew his own name would do him in?

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can’t take any of the credit, kotenok.” 
> 
> “Why not?” he fake gasped, “I made the arm, that’s at least twenty-five percent of it.” 
> 
> “It’s attached to me.” 
> 
> “It’s technically still mine.” Tone matter of fact, Tony added, “I get it in the divorce.”
> 
> “We’re not married."

He’s a little shit and he knows it.

“S’cuse me, Dollface, I think that’s mine.”

Tony looked up in surprise, holding a white box of takeaway Thai food and already half-way turning to leave, probably intent on escaping with his bounty despite Steve’s insistent requests for their elusive host to join them for “team dinner”. 

From the corner of his eye, James could see Steve stiffen.

“There’s only one order of Singapore noodles, Toy Soldier, and it’s got my name written all over it,” Tony retorted.

“Sharing is caring, Sugar,” he teased, brows lifting suggestively.

"Put those egg rolls on the table, and I'll think about it, Winter Wonderland" and that's that - Tony stays for "team dinner".

Throwing a wink Steve’s way, as if he were doing it for him, James commandeered the seat closest to Tony, with Natasha – never once meeting an opportunity she didn’t exploit – sticking to Tony’s other side.

 “You know,” Steve began, once the table was cleared, the rest of the team had scattered and more importantly – Tony had disappeared back into his lab. “You don’t need to entertain him, Buck. I mean, I want Tony to get along with us better, but you don’t need to sacrifice your comfort like that.”

Innocently, James asked, “Whatcha mean?”

“I know he’s been giving you these…pet names and all, but you don’t need to reciprocate.” When James still maintained his confusion, Steve continued, more firm, “In fact, _I’ll_ tell him to cut it out, it’s clearly making you uncomfortable.”

“Whoa, hey, Stevie, I have no idea what you’re even talking about, I don’t have a problem with Stark calling me whatever he wants.”

“You…you don’t?”

Clapping him on the shoulder albeit a little rougher than necessary, James said, “Naw, he’s just being friendly, ain’t he?”

To that, Steve couldn’t argue, and for every interaction between James and Tony, Steve contributed by offering pained smiles as the pair of them seemingly got more and more comfortable.

James may not be comfortable _being_ Bucky Barnes, but he could certainly _play_ Bucky Barnes well enough.

That it seemed to drive Barton crazy too with how chummy he and Tony were only served to solidify his decision to take Bucky Barnes’ good looks, charm, and charisma, and go for a joy ride; driving in deep that out of all of them on “Team Cap” in that “Civil War” bullshit, it was only he that had Tony’s forgiveness.

“Petty, petty, petty,” Tony tsked from the workbench, “I really am a bad influence.”

Idly twirling one of his knives between his flesh and blood hand as he lay on the couch a few feet away, James snorted. “You can’t take any of the credit, kotenok.”

“Why not?” he fake gasped, “I made the arm, that’s at least twenty-five percent of it.”

“It’s attached to me.”

“It’s technically still mine.”  Tone matter of fact, Tony added, “I get it in the divorce.”

“We’re not married,” James deadpanned, though when he met Tony’s eye, the engineer’s ridiculous pout pulled a laugh from him, even as Tony complained, “Damn it, I knew I forgot something.”

Before James could reply, a video-call alert interrupted them, and Pepper Potts’ voice rang around the room, “Tony Stark.”

James could practically feel the man cringe.

Instantly, Tony turned placating, “Yes, my darling Pepper, my honeysuckle, the light of my life -”

And then, the berating started, and yeah – James could have left, it was like standing next to your friend while their mom yelled at them – but also, peering at Tony from over the back of the couch, James couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Not even because he found the whole thing hilarious (and he really did), but he thought for just a second, he caught sight of something odd – that every time Tony’s name was spoken, he seemed to wilt ever so slightly and –

Impossible, no way, how could it be?

It was another week of mental gymnastics before the evidence was too glaring, and it became apparent that Tony was playing a similar game James played.

Not that James should’ve been surprised.

The Rogues, for all the sulking they were doing about the engineer’s coldness towards them, said his name like a curse word, or more charitably, accompanied by displeased expressions, or in a tone that suggested nothing good.

Steve’s signature _I’m-so-disappointed-Tony_ sigh provided Exhibit A through H well enough.

Immediately after, the engineer’s expression would become muted; his sparkle dulling as his eyes, once alight with feeling, shuttered. The laugh lines around his mouth smoothed too, the curve of his lips swiftly changing the angle from a small genuine smile to that typical smirk James recalled on television: defiant, but wary.

It was like an incantation had been spoken, like Tony’s name was a curse unto itself.

To be fair to Steve, at least, Tony had a similar response when Pepper or Rhodes said his name too; a blend between looking caught doing something he shouldn’t and resolved to accept whatever scolding he was in for regardless of whether he deserved it or not.

Which was a little unfair, in James’ opinion.

All Tony ever really did was get carried away on his creating binges – _sciencing_ his days away – messing around and snarking at his robotic children, his _Spider-son_ and Rhodes himself, when he had the time to visit.

Granted, there were many a day when Tony insisted on being a brat – and he was outright adorable – a national treasure that needed to be protected – and all he _really needed_ when that happened was one of three things: something to eat, a nap or someone to listen to him rant about something that was bothering him.

Hell, James was convinced that sometimes just murmuring sweet nothings in Russian placated the engineer’s temper tantrums which was the most weirdly endearing thing because he knew for a fact Tony didn’t understand a lick of it.

But that was all besides the point –

No one had such an aversion to their own name, no one except James when Steve called him Bucky.

 “Kotenok, do you like your name?”

For a fraction of a second, he froze, before, “Can’t really complain.” Tony shrugged, but was quick to wiggle his brows as he teased, “I’m really getting into the Russian pet names though. And I know the Brooklyn is phony, but god damn, the things you do to a man.”

Despite knowing the tactic was just a distraction, and damn it, _he babbles when he’s nervous_ , James couldn’t help but preen a little. Though, he was quick to get back on track, “I’m serious, you always have a face when people call you by your name.”

Tony seemed to square his shoulders – a physical move to defend himself, “You’d know about that, wouldn’t you?”

James, however, wasn’t in this for a fight, “Exactly, you’re talking to the Russian spy pretending to be a Brooklyn boy from the Forties.”

“So, you think you’re an expert?” And damn it, Tony earned the pet name, the man could get downright feisty.

“Russian spy,” James repeated for emphasis, brows lifting, “Pretending, and succeeding in pretending to be a Brooklyn boy from the Forties.”

Still, he scoffed, “So you think I’m _pretending_ to be Tony Stark?” He was trying, consciously, to keep his limbs loose – trying too hard to appear unbothered – even as his eyes narrowed – in warning, in fear; trying to think his way out of this, trying to talk his way through this without giving too much up.

But if Tony could look at him and know exactly who James was, James could do the same, “Like you said, you’re a connoisseur of coping mechanisms.”

Even before he was Tony Stark, Iron Man; he was Tony Stark, Howard’s son. And then, Tony Stark, the genius. Tony Stark, the billionaire. Tony Stark, the futurist. Tony Stark, the title.

Though, something still didn’t sit well with James that Tony thought he could self-condense himself into the _genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist_ like that; echoing the headlines of magazines as if those identifiers could ever quantify him to _just that._

“It isn’t the worst one,” Tony admitted, and James saw what he already knew –

Tony, who kept wanting to _fix_ and _improve_ the world; who kept looking at the possibilities; who kept dreaming of the future.

Tony, who faced turmoil and heartache and everyone telling him to take up less space and responding by spreading his arms wide and demanding they take it from him.

Tony, who kept fighting to make the world safe, and to keep on saving it even when the odds weren’t in his favour.

Tony, who probably had PTSD engraved into his bones after all the shit he went through for no other reason than the fact that he wanted to do what was right.

Tony, who still looked at the people who adored him and thought _you deserve better_.

Tony, who despite everything, was so human and couldn’t be stronger or sadder for it.

James practically hearing Tony’s silent plea in his uncomfortable shifting, declared, unflinchingly in the quiet of the lab, “I’m not as emotionally stunted as you.”

Something in his eyes flickered in surprise, and James could have sworn Tony exhaled in relief, except he snorted instead and retorted, “You figure?”

“Oh yeah,” he nodded seriously. “Because you’re Tony: Tony, who builds robots. Tony, who wears kitten shirts. Tony, who drinks too much coffee. Tony, who sucks at sharing. Tony, who saves the world.”

He huffed out a breath through his nose, sounding like a laugh even as he teased, “What about my pet names?”

“Oh, the pet names are still a thing,” James said, feigning thoughtfulness, even as a slow smirk wove itself onto his lips. “But I’m using Tony for special occasions.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I couldn't decide if I liked Bucky's Brooklyn Thang or his Comrade Thirst more, so this was just an excuse to use both ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Author's Note:**

> Four days and three revisions. I give up. This story hates me.
> 
> [Click here if you want to find out more about my work](https://everything-withered.tumblr.com/)


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